A Mage's Power (Journey to Chaos) (19 page)

“Indeed you are,” A fourth voice said.

Their sergeant and mentor, Basilard Bladi, pulled Tiza's
sword out of the corpse.

“Hey, Daylra! That's my sword, you know!” Tiza shouted. “I
killed the monster!”

“Clumsily, I might add,” Basilard said as he returned it. “And
you killed it together.”

“Hey! It's still dead!” Tiza protested.

“You could have killed it faster, and with less risk, if you
had a plan! Instead, you charged in like a jelly-minded glory seeker. I thought
Sathel taught you better than that.”

Tiza reddened. “Uh . . .well . . .”

“That kind of thinking will
never
make
you a
Regular.”

Tiza lowered her even redder face, then it shot up. “Hey! If
you knew how I attacked, then you must have been here the whole time!”

Basilard smiled grimly. “That's right. If it weren't for
Nolien, all of you would be dead.”

“But!” Tiza protested.

“Nolien blinded it, healed you after your rush . . .”

“I was fine!”

“ . . . and created a strategy to finish it off,” Basilard
finished. “What you did was
dangerous
, however, you are not the only one
to blame.” Tiza regained a little confidence and sat back to watch.

“Eric.” Eric felt cold inside. “You are a
battle
mage. You're supposed to provide Tiza with
cover fire!
Leave the
shielding to Nolien. Never,
ever,
look a monster in the eye; they'll
freeze you with killing intent. That was in Dengel's book!”

Eric looked down. “Yes, Daylra.” He wished the Cecri had killed
him; it wouldn't hurt this much.

“Nolien,” Basilard called.

“But Daylra, you said I did everything right.”

“True, but not fast enough,” Basilard said. “It doesn't
matter if you know what to do, if you don't do it
fast enough!
I know
for a fact Tsilaer taught you pragmatism, so why didn't you use it? Mercenary
healers do more than heal; blinding the monster should have been the first
thing you did because it would decrease the likelihood of injury.”

Nolien reddened, but he didn't lower his eyes like Eric did.
“I understand, Daylra.”

Basilard paused and all they could hear was his breathing
and the pitter-patter of rain.

 “Now . . . are you two finished?” The boys shook their
heads. “Finish and we'll leave. Tiza, while you're waiting, you can wash up.”
Before she could protest, he continued, “You won't be allowed inside the castle
covered in mud and monster blood.” Tiza grumbled all the way to the river.

As Eric and Nolien went back to poop collecting, the battle
mage reflected on the battle and how useless he was in it.
Battle mage,
battle
!
It was his very title and he forgot. All he did was put up useless barriers and
get frozen by killing intent. Another battle like that and he'd die.

Hours later, Team Four returned to Roalt. At the castle's
curtain wall, they saw a pair ahead of them: a boy and girl standing just
inside the drawbridge.

The first to catch Eric's attention was the girl. A silver
circlet rested on her forehead above stunning gold eyes. Her hair was brown,
streaked with fire red, and flowed down her back and against a pink dress.
Trimmings ran over the bodice and skirts like tendrils of fire. A ruby necklace
cast as flame rested against her throat. Her long fingers were clasped in white
gloves that reached her elbows. They held an umbrella over her head. Eric
couldn't help but stare. Nolien pinched him.

 “Stop!” he whispered. “That's her Royal Highness Princess Kasile
Landros Ataidar!”

“I thank you for escorting me today,” Kasile said to her
companion. Eric thought it was a silly literary cliché for beautiful girls to
have beautiful voices, but now it seemed like honest fact.

The other figure took the princess' hand and kissed the back
of her palm. This boy had rough purple hair and three scars on his face. His
grey eyes were fierce like they'd seen as much battle as Basilard, but no more
years than Eric had. His jacket and pants were a testament to this as was the
light armor on his right shoulder and left hand.  

“Your Highness, it is my honor to be your bodyguard.
Whenever you need me I'll be at your side in an instant.” The most distinctive
part of this boy was the zanpatou on his back; a sword big enough to slay both
rider and horse in one stroke.

Tiza chuckled. “Someone's compensating.” Eric chuckled with
her. Nolien didn't.

 The boy spun around and death glared. “I'll have you know
that this sword is so heavy it can crush
golems
! Carrying it is strength
training! A regular sword could never do that!“ His whole body relaxed when a
gloved hand touched his shoulder. “Forgive my outburst, princess.”

“It's all right. I'd be mad if I heard similar jokes.” Eric
melted all over again.

“If you two lovebirds would get out of the way,” Tiza
sneered and their cheeks pinked. “We have a mission to complete!”

“Ah yes, she is quite right.” Basilard said. “See you at
home, Culmus.”

 Culmus slowly stepped away from Kasile, faced the Dragon's
Lair, and walked away. “Yeah, see you there,” he called over his shoulder.  

Kasile stared after him and Basilard coughed. She blushed
briefly, made eye contact, and apologized for ignoring them. When she saw Eric,
she gasped. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought she recognized him. “You
must be the Otherworlder . . .” Her voice lacked any sense of formality. “Eric
Watley.” Eric was too flustered to realize this.

“Uh . . .um,  yes. Yes . . . Your Highness. I am.”

“How'd you know?” Basilard asked casually, “He didn't
introduce himself.”

Now the princess was flustered. “Oh . . .he's the talk of
the town.” She regained her composure and smiled winningly. “It's not every day
an Otherworlder comes to Ataidar. I love a good gossip.”

Tiza coughed out, “Liar.” Nolien nudged her.

“Forgive her, Your Highness. She has a cold and has been
coughing all day.”

“Oh dear, I hope you get better soon,” Kasile said to Tiza.

“Your Highness is too kind,” Nolien said.

“It was nice running into you, Your Highness, but we have a
mission to complete.” Basilard bowed. “By your leave.”

 Eric walked to the Apothecary's office on autopilot. His
mind was filled with thoughts of Kasile. Her beauty imprinted itself on his
mind and he saw her brilliance over and over again. He didn't wake up until he
bumped into Tiza.

“Watch it, Dimwit,” she said and Eric apologized.

The Apothecary’s attendant let them in and the novices put
down their burdens. The Apothecary jumped down from her seat, ran across the
floor, and climbed to the crate's top. She looked like household vermin
invading a pantry and Eric fought the urge to chuckle. His teammates did not.
Right
. . .This is normal.
The apothecary unscrewed a jar, stuck her paw in, and
tasted the poop. Now Eric fought the urge to gag.

“Are they full enough, ma'am?” Basilard asked.

“Yes.” She snapped her claws and her attendant gave Basilard
a number of bags. “Your pay, 50 gold per bottle, as promised.”

Basilard closed his eyes, and when he opened them, they
glowed. A moment later, he blinked again. “A pleasure doing business with you,
ma'am. Thank you for choosing the Dragon's Lair.”

 The delivery and payment were all the proof Eric needed to
confirm his suspicions from the previous day. There was so much distrust
between Castle dwellers and Lair dwellers that they checked every exchange for
deceit. The Apothecary made no attempts to hide her inspection and Basilard
freely admitted to his novices that he used a spell to inspect the bags.
Forget
fantasy novel, Tasio pulled me into Shakespeare!

Curious as always, he asked how falsehood vision spells
worked: Basilard didn't use words or gestures. Nolien explained, with badly
hidden amusement, that their mentor didn't need any of that for his magecraft.
He was a Greater Mage; all he needed was the Three Laws. Lesser Mages like
himself and Eric were the ones that needed focusing tools.

“Haven't you been reading that book I gave you?”

Eric blushed. “Oh . . .um . . . well . . .” The truth was he
hadn't touched it since his failure.

“Keep at it.” Basilard said, “If you have trouble all you
need to do is ask.”

“Yes, I know.” Eric said, so softly he could barely hear
himself.

The mission had done nothing but remind him he was a loser.
I failed at collecting poop.
Nolien being worse was lost on him.
I
failed a simple fire spell . . .
The fact that he hadn't been formally
taught fire spells escaped him.
I made countless mistakes fighting the Cecri
. . .He didn't remember that the others made mistakes.
And I'm ignorant of
common knowledge.
He even forgot he was an Otherworlder and thus ignorant
of a lot of common knowledge.

Basilard walked into the guild lobby. “Mission Accomplished.“

“Wonderful!” Mia said. Her infectious cheer made Eric feel
better despite his thoughts. She collected the fee from Basilard with one hand
and speed typed on her desktop with the other.

“Hey!” Tiza shouted. “When are we getting paid!?”

“Now of course.” Mia said. She counted out three piles of
coins. “There you go.”
“This is it?” Tiza and Nolien chorused.
“Well yeah.” Mia said with a tilt of her head. “Novices aren't paid as much as
Regulars or Seniors because they haven't earned it yet.”

“So in addition to getting smaller jobs,” Nolien said, “we
also get smaller pay?”
“Yep!” Mia chirped. “Keep in mind that most of the guild's novices still live
with their families.” First she looked to Tiza. “They are not street urchins,”
Then Nolien. “Runaways,” Finally Eric. “Or Otherworlders. They don't move out
until they're Regulars, if then.”

Basilard ruffled her hair and she giggled. “I need to write
the mission report; Old Man Aaloon will want it before long. Meet me in the
training hall in half an hour.”

Chapter 7
The Joust

The following weeks were less exciting; babysitting, picking
up trash, running errands. Eric didn't care because they paid his rent and
filled his belly. His teammates on the other hand . . .

“This is a waste of my time!” Nolien grumbled as he washed a
pair of pants.

Team Four's newest clients were a family of painters and
their newest job was doing their laundry. When Eric asked about washing
machines, the painters said they didn't bother; separating the cotton from
non-cotton, the whites from the colors, lights from darks, and what about
something that was all three? Not to mention the machines were rough on their
clothes. They usually did it all by hand.

 The opening joust refused them such a luxury. Every jock
who thought he could carry a lance and ride a horse was going to be there and
all of them wanted a brand new custom crest to show off. They had to work
overtime to finish all their orders.

It was a beautiful spring day with just the right balance of
wind to sun. If Eric weren’t working, he would have laid down on the grass and
taken a nap. Instead, he dumped out his dirty wash water.

 “At least by collecting poop, I could learn about medicinal
materials and provide healing in case of attack, but this!?” Nolien yanked the
pants out. “Real servants do this and are paid more for it!”

“That's why those who can't afford full-time servants hire
us.” The sergeant of Team Four was lying in the shadow of their client's house.
Instead of reading his book, it lay on his face.

“Didn't you say our first mission was a waste of time as
well?” Nolien blushed and fumbled.

“Hindsight
is wonderful, isn't it?”

Tiza beat a rug as if it were a monster. She tore every
scrap of clothing she touched so Basilard reassigned her, apologized to their
clients, and assured them that the Dragon's Lair would reimburse them or pay
for repairs. Unlike the seamstress from last week, they told him not to worry
about it.

Caring for babies, wearing dresses, washing clothes
,
Eric thought as he scrubbed yet another shirt.
The connection is obvious:
traditional female roles.
Of course, it was no secret that Tiza was the
opposite of feminine, but if she were simply a tomboy, why the intense hate for
all things girly? What could cause her to hate dresses so much she would
forfeit pay to avoid wearing one?

“There are two things Men will never understand,” Basilard
said. “Chaos and Women.”

“Another quote from the Founder?” Eric asked.

“Not quite,” Basilard replied. “Done yet?”

“Not quite,” Eric shot back. He hated when Basilard did
that.

Minutes later, snores were heard from his general direction.

And so Eric passed the morning with his team; the fighter
beating the
dust
out of a rug, the healer unhappily washing clothes, the
sergeant napping and, himself, the mage, also scrubbing clothes. It wasn't what
he imagined himself doing after college . . . he glanced at the old-fashioned clothing
he was wearing, then at the magic staff lying at his side. It
definitely
wasn't what he imagined himself doing after college. Despite the warm day, he
shivered.

Termination from a job was nothing new to him, but being
fired from a mercenary guild meant more than lost income. If he were a
blacksmith and wasn't good enough, then he'd find another job, but he was a
mercenary and if a mercenary isn't good enough in a life-or-death fight . . .
He gulped and scrubbed with renewed intensity.

Around midday, their clients handed Basilard the fee. “Thank
you for your hard work.”

Basilard accepted it. “Our pleasure.”

The painter family lived in the Brown Town of Clay and
Creation where artisans lived and worked. Instead of the bang of hammers and
occasional fight, there was only the steady hum of pottery wheels and market
chatter. Eric couldn't tell what the buildings were made of because every one
of them was covered in clay or paint or whatever the occupant's trade happened
to be. It reminded him of dogs marking their territory and he laughed . . .until
he remembered that they could very well
be
dogs.